


If You Let Me (I Could Love You to Death)

by poisontaster



Series: Light 'Verse [11]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Infidelity, Jealousy, Light Bondage, M/M, Oral Sex, Past Relationship(s), Possessive Behavior, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-26
Updated: 2006-12-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 05:09:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5079064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean make peace with the past. In their own Winchestery way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Let Me (I Could Love You to Death)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [strippedpink](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=strippedpink).



"Hey Dean."

"Yo, Jer-ray." Dean nods to the middle-aged giant behind the counter. "How they hanging man?"

"Full and furry, dude." Jerry gives Dean a self-satisfied grin and Dean chokes and then laughs, shaking his head. "Hey," Jerry says, opening up the display case. "Try one of these sticky buns your bro made. Just out and they're a little piece of heaven on earth."

Dean accepts the wax paper wrapped bun—still hot and gooey—and takes a bite. The incredible cinnamon-sugar- _something_ taste explodes in his mouth, sweeter than baby kisses. Dean groans appreciatively and licks frosting from his lips, not wanting to waste any.

Jerry nods wisely. "Did I say or what?"

Dean shrugs in admission, unwilling to talk through his second—larger—bite.

"You looking for the kid?" Jerry asks mostly-rhetorically.

Dean nods, licking sticky from his fingers before going back for a third bite.

"I think he's still out back on break." Jerry lifts the counter panel and ushers Dean back, nodding towards the blue painted door marked 'Employees Only'. "Head on back."

Dean nods his appreciation, eats the last bite and chucks the waxed paper square before heading towards the back. The storeroom and two bakery stations—breads and 'fancies'—are empty. Lydia, Jerry's wife and indeed a tattooed lady—is going over the books in the closet sized office. "Hey Dean."

He's starting to feel antsy with the desire to see Sam but he stops anyway to shoot the shit with Lydia for several minutes—Lydia's a talker—because the Lawrys are good people who've been good to Sam.

"Huh," Lydia says about ten minutes later, when she finally stops to take a sip from her never-ending mug of weird hippie tea. "I'd've thought Sam would've been back from break by now. Must be serious."

"What's that?"

Lydia shrugs. "Some friend of Sam's came by to see him and they went out back to talk. I thought it might be bad news."

"Why?" If Dean felt any shame about probing into the details of Sam's private life, it was purely vestigial, dulled by years of snooping into the most intimate details of folks' life, mostly to keep them from being killed or worse. So yeah, not a lot of shame.

"Well, you know Sam." Lydia flaps a hand, the hyacinths inked across her knuckles fluttering like bird wings. "He's got that…puppy thing. Always happy to see everybody, always makes you _feel_ it, you know? He just didn't look real happy to see this cat."

"Huh." It's an effort to be casual, to not go thundering out into the alley, guns—or gun, since he's only got the ankle strap .22 with him—blazing. But his life bears much less resemblance to a Jerry Bruckheimer movie than it used to and he's not there. Yet. "Anybody you've ever seen before?"

Lydia shakes her head, doodling around with the pink, sparkly pen in her fingers. "Nah. Sam didn't seem worried though," she says and Dean meets her eyes to see a much more perceptive look that he was expecting. "Just…annoyed. Little bit angry." She shivers a little and Dean wonders if she's aware of it. Sam _is_ just that easygoing and so when he does show his anger—and it's in there—people tend to haul ass out of his way.

"Well, I guess I'll go see if he needs rescuing," Dean says, pushing off the doorjamb with his shoulder and cramming his fists in his pockets.

Lydia laughs, taking his words—as he expected—less literally than he means. "You do that. Nice seeing ya, Dean."

Dean waves over his shoulder, "You too, Lyds."

He doesn't know why he's quite so stealthy, slipping out the shop's back door. He doesn't _really_ think Sam's in need of rescue (though he doesn’t dismiss the possibility). Sam says Dean likes to 'play hunter', even when he's not actually hunting anything and maybe that's it. Or…maybe he just wants to get a good look at one of Sam's so-called friends, that other, mysterious section of Sam's life that Dean's not a part. The part that he once cut Dean out of his life to have.

Yeah. Sure. Whatever.

In any case, he's quiet as he slips through the propped open fire door and he looks around the brick out-hang cautiously, careful not to be seen.

Not careful enough, as it happens. Sam's leaning his hips against one of the garbage cans, arms crossed, and Dean sees his eyes do an up and down flicker as he glimpses Dean. His lips press thin and wide, classic bitchface. Dean can't get a good look at the face of the dude with Sam—his back's to Dean—but something about the height (because not that many people rival Sam and Jerry) those broad, slumped shoulders and the curly brown hair pings in his memory and Dean frowns, trying to place him.

He can't hear what they're saying; the other kid's talking in a low, urgent voice, hands flapping as he gestures. He turns a little and Dean gets a decent look at his profile, the heavy, sleepy eyes, the huge honker of a nose and the soft, cocksucker lips. He tilts his head a certain way and Dean remembers all at once. Joshua.

Joshua, Sam's "just some guy I used to work with" who'd nonetheless given enough of a shit to show up at the hospital when Sam concussed himself. Joshua, who'd put his hand on the small of Sam's back and said, "I was going to give him a ride home."

Yeah. Dean knows what kind of ride Joshua wants to give Sam.

He comes out from behind the overbreak, deliberately scuffing his foot across a half-crushed can so that Joshua turns, slightly startled, and Sam finally gives Dean his full attention.

"Hey man," Dean nods politely and dismissively at Joshua. "Josh, right?" He holds out his hand.

Joshua's got a decent grip on him, but he's already stammering, "It…it's Josh _ua_ , actually…" when Dean hooks a thumb in Sam's direction and says smoothly, "Yeah, I gotta borrow my bro for a bit. Urgent family business, you know?" Sam's eyebrows hike, he straightens into a stand and Dean makes a shoot-em gesture at Joshua, "Great to see _you_ again, though, man."

"Oh. Yeah…sure…"

Dean grabs Sam by the sleeve of his thermal shirt and tugs him back in the direction of the shop's back door. Sam comes willingly enough, turned half back towards Joshua. "Hey man, I'm sorry," Sam says, hands spread, "but you know how it is, right?"

"Sure," Joshua says. He smiles and for a moment, even Dean thinks, _Wow. Hot._ "It was good to see y…"

Dean jerks Sam through the bakery door and kicks loose the cement block that's propping it; it cuts Joshua off with a soft sigh of hinges.

Sam turns around, his eyes wide in the dimness. "Hey, what's up?" he asks and he sounds worried. "It's not the kids, is it? Is Miria…"

Dean shuts him up with his mouth. He jerks Sam into him at the same time he pushes him back into the wall, hard enough that the impact goes through them both and Sam grunts into Dean's mouth. A second later, Sam's hands are fisted in Dean's shirt and one of Sam's skinny legs is snaking its way around Dean's hips.

Dean slides his hands down to Sam's ass and grinds him hard against Dean's thickening cock. Sam's well on his way to hard too, and at the contact, Sam moans loud and long. Dean pulls back and Sam blinks at him. "Dean… Dean, what…?"

"Shut _up_ , you ginormous whore," Dean hisses half-angrily, "or everyone's going to know you're getting fucked by your brother in the bakery."

Sam whimpers, eyes closing for a moment and his hand groping down to squeeze his dick. Hard. Dean licks his lips and closes the distance between them again, pushing Sam again, along the wall until Sam's ass hits up against one of the countertops. Sam's tongue is licking in Dean's mouth frantically as he makes soft—thank God, soft—hurting noises deep in his throat. Dean reaches down, cups Sam through his jeans—almost dislocating his wrist as Sam bucks—and then reaches to pop the button and slip the zipper.

Dean urges Sam up, onto the counter, his fingers hooked into the waistband of Sam's shorts and jeans so that when Sam goes up, forearms flexing, his clothes don't go with him. Sam quickly toes off his sneakers and Dean strips him and kicks them aside.

Sam should look ridiculous, mussed and half-naked, soft, swollen mouth and hard, curving cock, but all Dean can think about is that mouth and that cock, soft and hard for _him._ He thinks about that kid Joshua, hovering around Sam, and wonders if he ever got to see Sam like this, hungry and wanting and damn near stupid with lust.

He doesn't expect the growl that builds in his throat or the tight heat in his chest; he doesn't mean for his hands to be so harsh when he grabs Sam's hips, jerking his brother bodily towards him. Sam seems good to go with it, falling willingly into Dean's mouth, his fingers tearing at Dean's jeans to get them open and down far enough to free Dean's cock which feels like a brand against his thigh and then his belly.

Without breaking the kiss, Sam's hand fumbles sideways, across the shelf of supplies, finding the bottle of vegetable oil by touch. He taps Dean's knuckles with it urgently and Dean pours a little of it into his palm to warm before slicking his cock. He reaches between Sam's legs and smoothes some on his thighs, circles and toys with the outside of Sam's ass until his brother's shuddering and moaning into his mouth. He doesn't finger Sam open. He wants Sam to feel it, when he shifts his brother's hips forward and brings Sam down, onto Dean's cock.

Sam doesn't disappoint. His mouth opens wide in shocked soundlessness and his eyes clench shut as his back arches. Then he whines, high and breathless, already thrusting and sliding his hips to take Dean deeper, harder.

"Shhh," Dean murmurs. "Shhh." And Sam tugs him forward to muffle his soft noises with Dean's mouth.

Sam's cock rides in the space between their flexing bellies, teasing, distracting friction, and Dean wraps both hands around Sam's ass to bring his brother closer, make the space tighter, better. It must work, because Sam's moans get deeper and faster, more desperate; inside he twists and shakes around Dean's cock, riding hard.

It's so good Dean wants to close his eyes. At the same time, he wants to watch Sam; the pleasure-pain flinch of his eyelids, the wet-silk line of his lips, folded between white teeth or open wide and panting. He wants to watch…everything; the bow and flex of all those miles of muscles, the way Sam's nipples peak tight, the bloody flush of his cock, filled to bursting and leaking pre-come in beads and spurts.

"Sammy," he whispers into his brother's skin, sad and angry, turned on and turned out and so, so completely tangled that he can't breathe.

Sam's legs scissor around his waist; Sam's arms do the same around his neck, clear as a telegram: _Don't stop. Don't go, don't stop._

 _No,_ he answers the same way, with each driving thrust into Sam's body, each time he makes Sam grunt and whine. _No. Right here; I'm right here._

When he comes, gripping Dean tight and hard against him, Sam sounds choked, trying to be quiet and starved for air. Dean didn't think he was that close, but at that sound, hearing Sammy struggle and fail to be silent, he can only bury his face in Sam's neck and give one, last lurching thrust before he spurts deep inside his brother. His teeth score Sam's skin and Sam pushes into it, panting erratically in Dean's ear.

"Jesus, Dean," Sam croaks, several minutes later when his ankles finally unlock from around Dean's back.

Dean feels like he could just go to sleep just like this, cradled between Sam's thighs and his softened cock still resting inside Sam's body. But he can't, so he gathers the shreds of himself back together and plants his thumbs against Sam's hips to push away.

Sam looks thoroughly fucked. His hair's a complete mess and his mouth looks like someone's been sucking on it (well, 'someone' has). He's red all the way from his hairline to his chest and there's a bruise darkening on his neck. Jesus; Sam looks totally _fucked_ and if Dean hadn't just come, the sight of Sam so completely sexed out would've had him up and whistling Dixie. As it is, his cock gives one last little twitch, one last shoot of weak come and Dean grunts.

Sam catches it, catches Dean staring at him and ruffles a hand self-consciously through his hair, blush deepening. "God, Dean…what _was_ that? I thought…" Sam laughs, jittery and shaky, eyes glittering. "I thought something was _wrong_."

"Nah." Dean grabs a handful of paper towels from the dispenser and cleans himself up a bit. The rough weave of the paper feels a bit like sandpaper on his dick, but beggars can't be choosers. He tucks himself in, zips himself up and gives the patented Dean Winchester smirk because he'll be _damned_ if he's going to let Sammy see his sudden, weird uncertainty. "Just came by to say hey," he says finally—which is the truth.

"Um. Hey?" Sam says, his expression still confused and unbelievably soft as he looks at Dean.

Dean grabs Sam's chin in his forefinger and thumb to tip his head down for a kiss. The meeting of their lips is almost innocent. Almost. And if their lips cling together just a little bit longer than necessary to meet innocent's criteria, at this point, does it really matter so much? "Hey," Dean replies softly, before he turns and walks out of the bakery and into the shop beyond.

***

So the next time, they head on over to Sam's place. Supposedly to watch the basketball game, but from the moment Sam piled into the Impala, Dean's hands have been all over him, dipping between Sam's legs, thumbing across his bottom lip, curling his fingers under Sam's hair and against the nape of his neck. Not that Sam objects.

Dean finally finds parking a block and a half away from Sam's apartment and so he couches his assaults in tackles and wrestling that probably look brotherly (God, Sam hopes so) to the naked eye, but result in things like the sharp jab of Dean's half-hard cock into his ass when Dean bear-hugs and lifts him from the concrete or quick thrusts of Dean's fingers between his lips, barely enough for one fast suckle before they're gone.

Once the door of Sam's apartment closes and locks behind them, Sam knows it's all over 'cept the fucking. He lets Dean grab him, pull him back against Dean's hot, tense body. Dean's hands slip under his shirt, cooler than his skin, so that Sam shivers as callused fingertips roam his stomach, flick across his nipples, delve under his jeans to scratch through his pubic hair and toy a little with his cock.

"Dean," he sighs, thrusting up into that frustratingly elusive touch. Dean's teeth scrape his neck, his shoulder and the two sensations, neck and cock, make Sam shiver.

"Shhh." Dean's fucking lazily against Sam's ass, his fingers finally meeting to work Sam's belt, his zipper, his button. "We'll get there."

Dean bends Sam over the couch. The arm's just a little too high for Sam to go to his knees; his toes curl into the hardwood, his thighs and calves burn but not as much as his ass when Dean fucks him, hard and good, fast and frantic.

 _Sammy,_ Dean whisper-kisses into the space behind Sam's ear. _So much. Love you so much. God, Sammy._ Dean's fingers thread through his and Sam squeezes their knuckles hard enough to make Dean curse when he comes, his brother deep inside him.

Afterwards, Dean slumps on top of him, heavy, slack and _real_ , mouthing lazy kisses into his shoulder, driving the couch's arm steadily deeper into his diaphragm. Sam turns his head and looks at the clock on the broke-down DVD player. He feels surprise it's only been forty five minutes.

"Get off me," Sam grunts and humps back with his shoulders and hips.

Dean's voice sounds half-asleep as he mumbles, only partially coherent, "…'n't wanna go."

Sam drops his head to kiss Dean's forearm, the only part of Dean he can comfortably reach. "You don't have to go," he answers quietly. "We got all night. Go on, get in the bed."

Dean makes a displeased, hurt noise, but he slides down Sam's body to the floor and Sam can breathe again. "God, you're heavy," Sam mutters, slipping down after Dean. The prep was rough and hasty and he's starting to ache. It's not a bad feeling.

He looks over at Dean. Dean's still got his shoes on, jeans and shorts tangled around his ankles. He made it out of his shirt—just barely—and his chest is still flushed and blotchy, his face softened and dazed. Sam wants to ruffle his fingers through the rumpled short scrub of Dean's hair.

"Don't think I can move my legs," Dean says, scrubbing his face like a little kid.

Sam laughs and comes up on his knees to put a hand on either side of his brother's face and kiss him, soft and slow and sloppy. Dean makes a soft sound and then his hand comes up to tangle in Sam's hair, his thumb stroking Sam's cheekbone. "Go get in the bed," he says again, husky. He helps Dean undo the laces on his boots, tug his clothes all the way off. "I'll be there in a sec."

Dean grumbles and mumbles, but he slides his legs free of the denim and crawls in the direction of Sam's bed. Sam slaps him once on the ass—Dean's glare could peel paint but it just makes Sam laugh again—and then hauls himself heavily to his feet and pads in the direction of the kitchenette.

He's got a pitcher of cold tap water in the fridge. He gulps down half of it thirstily and pours most of the rest into a cup large enough to share, because he knows his brother, the hog. He looks out through the doorway, sees Dean sprawled out on the blankets, the curve of his shoulder, the curve of his ass, his feet hanging off the end. He likes having Dean here, in his bed; the thought of the whole night in front of them—not even to fuck, just to do…whatever. Whatever they want.

He's going to the bed when he sees the light blinking on his ancient duct-taped answering machine. It's a surprise. He doesn't get many messages, one of the many reasons he doesn't bother with voicemail. Dean's here—and he would have just called Sam's cell (which he pays for) anyway—so Sam guesses it must have been Lydia or Dave. Maybe they want him to pick up an extra shift; it's not like he can't use the money in a serious way. He turns up the volume, hits **PLAY** and then crosses to the bed to flop down next to Dean. "Move over."

Dean slurs something and rolls over just enough for Sam to lie down before rolling back to sprawl across him, fumbling for the cup.

"Hey, Sam, it's Joshua," the magnified voice announces loudly and both Sam and Dean freeze. Dean's head comes up from the pillows and his hand tightens a little on Sam's hip. "Look, I just wanted to say I had a great time at lunch. It was just…so nice to see you again."

Sam's head falls back onto the mattress. Ever since his concussion accidentally crossed their paths again, Joshua's been making overtures at Sam. First he'd shown up at the shop 'to make sure Sam was really okay' (and really, Dean fucking him stupid in the bakery was the far more memorable event here) and then it was inviting him out to lunch, which…okay, was Sam's mistake for going along with it but he thought he could give the kid the brush-off with no hard feelings. But he apparently hadn't been clear enough, because now Joshua's calling.

"Joshua," Dean says speculatively. He bends his head for his tongue to outline the muscles of Sam's abs and Sam shivers. "That's that guy from the hospital, right?"

"Ugh. Yes," Sam agrees, running his fingers over Dean's shoulder and down his back.

"He was at the shop the other day too."

"I was hoping maybe we could do it again sometime," Joshua—or his recorded voice—continues, oblivious. As oblivious as it's owner, apparently. Sam rolls his eyes.

"Yeah," Sam sighs, then wiggles as Dean finds a ticklish spot on his ribs. "You want some?" he asks Dean, offering the glass. He should put it down before the two of them spill it all over the place.

Dean slaps it out of his hand unexpectedly. The plastic clatters to and across the floor, splashing water everywhere, while Dean pounces on him, shoves him flat. "Dean!" he says, or tries to, because the moment he opens his mouth, Dean's tongue is there, owning, claiming.

Sam's surprised that Dean's ready to go again so fast, so soon; Dean's hand creeps around Sam's flank, closes hard on his skin and drags him up against Dean's body from ribs to thighs, a rough, brutal grind. Sam puts the spilled water instantly out of his mind in favor of this. Dean.

One hand curves around the back of his brother's neck, the other cups down low, where his body dips and then curves; Sam spreads his legs wider and moans as their cocks slip-slide against each other.

"Guess he's more than just 'some dude from work', then," Dean says when the kiss breaks. His fingers hook behind Sam's knee, makes him spread even wider. Before Sam can say anything, though, Dean's mouth is on his again, muffling his sounds. Dean's fingers—thick, knowing—plunge inside him, slipping on old come, old lube. Sam yelps and bucks up, driving Dean deeper into him. Dean smiles against Sam's mouth and sucks harder on Sam's tongue.

It hasn't been anywhere near long enough for either of them, meaning Sam can only writhe and gasp as Dean fingerfucks him, rubbing rough and exquisite against his prostate until Sam is hard again, spasming around Dean's fingers.

"Dean," he mutters, twisting away from his brother's mouth. "Jesus, God, Dean…please. Just fuck me already, please…"

Dean's grin is pure evil as touches Sam with the thick, wet head of his cock and then thrusts in. Sam arches and grabs onto Dean's biceps, nails digging in as Dean fucks deep, swivels—Sam curses and twists—and then withdraws, slow, teasing, making Sam feel all of him. He pulls out all the way and then plunges in again, the same slow, forceful thrust all the way inside.

"Dean," he says weakly, chest hitching, hardly able to breathe around the feel of Dean inside him. "Dean, Dean…"

It's just mindless repetition; Sam doesn't even really know what he's saying as Dean teases him, out and then in, out and then in, still rubbing across his prostate on each pass. Still, by the way Dean keeps on grinning like the cat with the cream, Sam guesses he likes it just fine.

Sam bites his lip hard, choking back his moans, the other noises that seem to be coming straight from his dick and his full, swollen ass. Dean's arms slip under Sam's shoulders, tug him closer still and Dean's face slides up right next to Sam's close enough for Dean's stubble to burn his cheek.

"Naw, c'mon, Sam; let me hear you," Dean whispers, low and dirty. "Let me hear how you like my cock in you. I want to hear you moan. I want to hear you scream."

Sam turns his head to look Dean right in the eyes. "Then you fuck me," he hisses. "Oh, God. You fuck me for real, Dean, and I'll make all the goddamn noise you want."

It's Dean's turn to moan and then his hips are pistoning against Sam's, fast and relentless. Sam flings his head back, Dean gnawing hickeys into his throat, and screams his damn fool head off, wanting to come so bad he can taste Dean's dick in his throat and yet not…quite… _there_ …

When Sam comes, it's like dying. He holds on to Dean as tight as he can, suddenly, illogically afraid that if he doesn't, Dean will vanish, only a ghost. _Don't go, don't go, Dean; don't go…_

He doesn't realize he's saying it aloud at first; not until Dean starts murmuring in his ear, "Ease down. Ease down, little brother, I'm right here."

Sam takes a breath, deep and cleansing and lets himself relax. The moment he does, he's swamped with drowsiness; well fucked twice and in as many hours, after a long day's work? He's pretty much done, at least 'til he's gotten a nap.

Dean's better about closeness—cuddling—than he used to be. Or maybe he's just hungry for it too, storing up for the hours, days, weeks that they don't, that they can't. In any case, he stays pressed up against Sam, panting soft and tired against his skin. It makes it easier for Sam to say—slur, really—"He was my friend. Joshua. When I was interning, he was my friend."

"Yeah, kinda figured that," Dean says. He sounds amused but his hands keep swirling over Sam's skin, holding him close.

"No, I mean he was my _friend_ ," Sam admits.

Dean's voice is quieter the second time. "Yeah. I got that too."

He hates feeling like he should apologize all the time. He hates that even if he did, his apologies mean and change nothing. "It was a long time ago," he offers finally and that feels like something he can live with. "It wasn't… He wasn't you."

"Yeah, well, who is?" Dean asks but after that, it's easier.

***

The shit really hits the fan a couple weeks later when Dean shows up at Sam's place unexpectedly.

"Lena's off at her mom's," Dean says, hands in his pockets. He looks embarrassed, ears burning red. "I thought… But you look like you're on your way out, huh?"

Sam looks at his key in the lock like he's never seen it before. "Uh, yeah, sort of," he admits, though really he's gladder to see Dean. "I'm supposed to meet Joshua for coff…"

He doesn't even get any further before Dean's on him, mauling him against the door, turning his key in the lock so it springs open and spills them into the apartment. Sam falls on the floor, Dean on top of him, and all the breath goes out of his lungs. Dean kicks the door shut.

"Dean," Sam protests as Dean starts tearing at Sam's belt. Even after two weeks, he's still wearing the bruises from last time and Dean's sucking new ones over the old. "Jesus, Dean…wait…"

"Anytime, anywhere, that was the deal, right?" Dean growls. His hand goes to Sam's cock, finds him already hard. Dean laughs against Sam's skin. "C'mon, you're not gonna go out with that tree in your pants, right? We can be fast."

He's already through Sam's zipper and his thumb slips through the slit of Sam's boxers, sweet friction along Sam's length. Sam pants.

"C'mon, Sammy…let me suck your cock."

"Shit," Sam hisses. "Shit, shit, shit!"

Which they both know is Sammich for _yes, Dean, please do_.

Dean lets Sam up long enough to get him on the bed and naked. Naked is a bit of a risk, Sam figures, but it's worth it to have skin on skin contact. Sam thinks it might just be the most brilliant idea he's ever had when Dean slicks up his fingers and puts two of them inside him, Sam's cock still halfway to Jesus down Dean's throat.

"Dean," Sam says, twisting in the sheets, writhing for that little extra bit of friction, those extra couple millimeters of depth. "Oh, _fuck_ , Dean…"

Dean hums and swallows and licks and it's no time at all before Sam's whimpers, "Okay. _Okay._ Christ. Just fuck me, okay?"

And this is all sounding really familiar. Not that Sam really cares a whole lot at this moment; Dean's taken pretty good care of that. Dean comes up off Sam's dick with the biggest, cheesiest grin. "Thought you were in a hurry," he pants and twists his fingers so good and deep that Sam thinks his spine might liquefy.

Sam lunges up and grabs Dean by the head. "Get up here, you whore and stick that dick where it'll do some good," Sam growls in his deadliest, most serious voice. "And hurry the fuck up."

Dean's grin was so big Sam thought the top of his head might fall off as he slithers up Sam's body. "God, you're so demanding," Dean complains, his mouth outlining the bone of Sam's jaw, his chin.

"And you love it," Sam replies, spreading his leg wider under the pressure from Dean's hand. Dean's ring presses against his thigh, distinct pressure, and it sends shudders all through Sam's body. "You love me."

He doesn't mean to say it. Not out loud. But seeing Dean like this, jealous, horny and possessive, despite everything and because of him…it's like a drug, heady and making him careless.

Dean stiffens a little; his breath puffs out hot and startled against Sam's skin. Then his cock is finding it's way home inside of Sam and Dean says, quiet and gruff, "Yeah." Dean shudders too as he slides in, slow and inexorable. "Yeah, okay?"

Sam feels like he's holding his breath. "Okay," he says faintly. Then, because it embarrasses them both, he crooks his legs over Dean's thighs, pulling him deeper. "C'mon, Dean. Enough of this careful shit. I want to feel it later. C'mon."

Dean's first kiss, to his throat, is soft. Then his mouth fastens over Sam's and the softness is gone; there's only the raging hunger that neither one of them can let go of, the unforgiving and unrelenting need that keeps bringing them back together like this.

"Sammy," Dean whispers against Sam's skin, thrusting into him, holding him down, holding him together.

 _I love you too, Dean,_ Sam thinks, tightening and twisting inside, to make his brother come.

He doesn't mean to sleep. He does still plan to meet Joshua…though probably not for the reasons Dean's got going through his mind. But he's been picking up shifts left and right and hanging out with—or fucking—Dean every chance he can in between times. He's exhausted. And after Dean gets done with him, he's damn near boneless too.

Sam sleeps.

He wakes up to the sound of his cell buzzing, hop-skipping its way across the nightstand table. _Dean,_ he thinks, still fuzzy, and sits up.

 _Tries_ to sit up. His arms are. His arms.

The vague ache in his shoulders resolves; his arms are stretched up and out to the sides, tied to the headboard with—Sam opens his eyes and cranes his neck up—a couple of his own neckties.

"Dean!" he shouts, not sure whether to be royally pissed or laugh. "Goddamn it, _Dean!_ "

The toilet flushes and Dean comes out, scratching his belly. He chuckles when he sees Sam tugging vainly at the restraints.

"Dammit, Dean…"

"Oh," Dean says, lunging across the bed and right across Sam's body. "Phone. Could be important." He snatches up the phone and looks at the display. "Hmmm. It's our boy Josh. Surprise, surprise."

"It's Joshua," Sam corrects tautly, letting his head fall back on the pillow. "And you're a bastard. Fucking untie me."

"Do you know how long it took me to get those knots tied just right?" Dean demands, all wounded pride and Sam jerks his arms again, making the headboard clank. Dean pulls back, onto his knees, shifting so he's not resting too much weight on the bad one. "You wanna take this call or not?"

"Dean, I swear to God, when I get loose from here… Oh, Joshua, hey." Sam glares hot death at Dean when his brother flips the phone open and shoves it against his ear. "Yeah. Um. I'm sorry, yeah. I know. I know I was supposed to meet you. Something came up." Dean's straddling Sam's thighs now, steadying himself with his hand on Sam's thigh. Dean's thumb slips through Sam's pubic hair, flirts with his balls. It tickles and Sam's voice wavers wildly, his hips pushing up against Dean's. _Quit it!_ he mouths. "Yeah, I'm really sorry. I should have called, I just got kinda tied up."

 _Good one,_ Dean mouths back and wraps his fingers around Sam's soft cock, making it stir and twitch in his grip.

 _Fuck you,_ Sam says back, only half listening to Joshua rattling on about his difficulties in locating the café.

Dean makes kissy face at him. _Promises, promises._

"Yeah, that's a shame," Sam says finally, cutting in on the story of Joshua's parallel parking triumph. God, he kept forgetting how much Joshua could _talk_. "No, I'm really sorry, man. I just…I don't think I can get unstuck any time soon."

"Damn right," Dean mutters into Sam's other ear, leaning up to nip and lick the hard curve, right where it always goes right to his dick. At the same time, Dean's thumb slips rough over the head of Sam's cock and his wrist gives a twist. Sam's throat shuts tight on his cry, his whole body rolls and quivers. "'Cause I got the rest of the night to pound that ass."

"Y-You think you could drop it in the mail for me instead?" Sam asks, hoping Joshua won't notice the way his voice shakes. Not, he guesses, that it really matters one way or the other. "I'd really…oh. Oh, I'd really appreciate it." Sam closes his eyes, giving in, his hips moving languidly to the rhythm Dean's setting on his cock. "Thanks, man."

He nods to Dean, who ends the call.

"You're an evil cocksucker, you know that?" Sam demands, when Dean tosses the cell aside on the table.

"As long as you're on the right end of my cocksucking skills, quit yer bitching," Dean retorts and licks a stripe up Sam's neck. "Now, c'mon, Sammy, you wanna fuck?"

"You're not slick, you know," Sam tells him.

Dean pulls back, does his best to look innocent, which isn't very good at all. "The hell, Sammy? I got my hand on your dick and you wanna _talk_? Sometimes I'm embarrassed to call you brother."

"You're totally jealous," Sam says, feeling pretty smug for someone strapped to a bedstead.

Dean makes a face. "What? You're totally smoking the crack. The fuck?" His thumb's making circles around the head of Sam's cock and Sam shifts on the sheets, restless and aroused.

"So _completely_ jealous," Sam says again and lets his tongue creep out, sweep slowly across his lips. Like that, he has Dean's undivided attention. Sam slips down a little further, ignoring the twinge in his shoulders, and swivels his hips. He's hard, thanks to Dean's tireless efforts, and that's got Dean's attention too. "You want me that bad? So bad you gotta tie me up? Fine. Come here. You got me all riled up, now you fix it. Fuck yourself down on me."

Dean sucks his breath in. Sam watches Dean fill, lengthen.

"You bought that dildo, right? Trying to make believe it was me?" Sam presses, pitching his voice deeper, exaggerating the drawl. "And now here you got the real thing. Warm and hard and ready, just waiting for you. Waiting for your ass."

Anything else Sam was going to say is cut off when Dean kisses him, Dean's body pushing forward to straddle Sam's lap. Sam wishes he could touch Dean, hold his brother's head between his hands, but he takes the punishing press of the kiss instead, his tongue sliding with and against Dean's.

"I was… In the bathroom," Dean whispers, almost too low for Sam to hear. Sam can't see his eyes, only dark lashes, sun lines and freckles. "I got myself ready for you. In case…"

Sam groans, a sound that only deepens as Dean brings himself down onto Sam. He really expected to have to argue with Dean about it, wheedle more. Usually it's not like this, Sam slipping through tight muscle and into his brother's body. Dean's slick inside, silken and wet, tight and shivering. Dean's breath catches and his teeth are cutting grooves in his bottom lip as he shifts and flexes himself down.

"God," Sam breathes, careful to arch his chest and not his hips, thighs aching with the strain of holding still, "if I'm not careful, I could come right now, just like this. Just like this. You feel so fucking good, Dean."

"Finest ass in the continental U.S.," Dean grits out, chest heaving. "You know if you come, I'm gonna kill you, right?"

Sam laughs and it gives him the space to rein his orgasm back, hang on a little longer, until he can make it good for both of them. "Yeah, I know."

"Good." They both grunt as Dean slips the last little bit, ass resting tensely on Sam's thighs. "Oh, God," Dean says and his voice sounds weak. "Sammy…"

"Shhhh," Sam says, leaning up as far as he can against the restraints until his shoulders and elbows creak. "C'mere. Jesus, Dean, you feel so good. I'll make you feel good too. I want… Just come here, okay? Come here. Kiss me."

***

Dean rubs his thumb against the bones of Sam's wrist. It's less to coax the blood back now as an excuse to touch him. Sam's hand swoops idly over Dean's naked back. It's louder here than he's used to, the constant _hrush_ of cars going back and forth, Sam's neighbors coming and going. He can't sleep.

Or maybe it's just this; him and Sam in a bed and nowhere else to be for the next little while. For the rest of the night and probably most of tomorrow. He doesn't want to waste any of it. He can sleep later.

"It wasn't what you think," Sam says suddenly. Dean jumps, only then realizing how much he's been lulled by the touch on his back.

"Whuzzat?" he mumbles.

"With Joshua. It wasn't what you thought. He was… I've been fighting with the firm about some hours they owed me. They finally cut me the check. Joshua was going to bring it to me, so I didn't have to make the trip down there. It's…well, it's not a _lot_ of money, but it'll sure come in handy."

Dean lifts his head and Sam shifts a little so they're looking at each other. "I thought you were okay for money?" Dean blurts before he thinks about it. "I can…"

"No." He can't see it, but Dean feels a faint glow of heat come off Sam's skin, a blush. "I mean, I _am_ okay. But who couldn't use extra, right? I earned it."

"Yeah." Dean nods, put his head back down on Sam's chest where he can hear Sam's heart thud dully beneath the skin. He knows Sam is living a lot closer to the skin of his teeth than either of them is comfortable with but he can't blame Sam for wanting to be his own man, make his own way. Sam's always been like that and nobody can take that from him, especially not Dean. Just the cell phone was a concession.

"I gave Joshua the brush-off a week ago," Sam adds.

"Good," Dean says, also before he thinks about it. Then, backpedaling, "What? Why would you do that?"

Sam laughs without sound, only noticeable by the way his body shakes. "Dean. My ass _and_ my wrists still ache. Why do you think?"

It's Dean's turn to flush with heat. "Yeah," he flounders, "but today was kind of…an extreme situation. I'm not… You can have friends, Sam." He _wants_ Sam to have friends. To have a life. Isn't that why they gave up the road in the first place?

"I know that," Sam says and the amusement in his voice makes Dean squirm and regret he ever brought it up. "I _have_ friends. Jerry and Lydia, Dave and the guys from the shop, you…"

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah," Sam agrees. "I know what you mean." His hand resumes its wandering across Dean's back, rippling his skin with goosebumps. "But Joshua…" Sam sighs. "Joshua wants to be a lot more than my friend. And I don't want that. Not from him."

"Sam—"

"Dean, I know exactly how we stand, okay? I know that. I don't care. I'd rather… I'd rather share you with Lena and the kids and everyone else than fuck around with some guy and pretend that he's you." Sam's fingertips dig into Dean's spine but Dean doesn't move. Finally Sam sighs. "Christ, I'm too tired for this. I'm sorry."

Shit and here they go. "Sam?"

"Yeah?"

Dean blows his breath out. His chest feels too tight, his skin hot and uncomfortable. "Quit apologizing, okay? You don't have to be so damn sorry all the time."

"But I _am_ sorry. I don't shirk my fuck ups, man."

"You just…" Dean pulls away from him, swings his legs off the bed and sits up. The apartment is cool; away from their shared heat, Dean's cold fast. "You keep acting like you're the only one that fucked up. Stop it, okay?"

Behind him, he hears Sam sit up too. "Dean? Why…? I left you. We were good and I promised and I chickened out. Couldn't handle it."

"And I'm plenty pissed about it," Dean says, and he is, feeling that old anger heat his body. "But I… I could've waited. I should've waited. And I didn't. I was so… I went and banged some girl and knocked her up and now we're all stuck." He looks down at his hands. "We're all so fucking _stuck_."

"Dean—" They don’t hug. They're not those guys. But Sam plants both hands against Dean's shoulder blades and his knees bracket Dean's hips and it's the next best thing to it.

"I love my kids, Sam," he says, hoarse and pinch-voiced.

"I know that," Sam answers. His forehead touches the nape of Dean's neck. Dean takes a deep, hard breath and it feel like something tearing in his chest.

"I'm sorry, Sam," he says and Sam's fingers tighten on his skin.

There. He said it. And God willing, he'll never have to say it again.

***

  
_Epilogue._

Sometimes it takes you a long time to see the obvious, no matter how smart you are.  
  
Say, for example and completely at random: _normal is relative_.  
  
And one step further: _so is safe_  
  
What has become normal and when/where he now feels safe is in these moments with Dean; tawdry meet-ups that have become almost beautiful in their nostalgia and because it's the only time they can be what they are. When he doesn't have to be Uncle Sam or Samuel Winchester, he can just be Sammy. As in _Sammy, please_ or _oh, fuck, Sammy, feel so good_ , or _there, there, oh, Sammy, yeah…_  
  
Which is kind of ironic, when you think about it.

Mostly, Sam doesn't think about it. He hates himself enough already without thinking any more than he already does about what they're doing, about where this will end, about how _completely fucked up_ this all is. So instead, he just curls up small next to Dean's side and presses small, sated and open-mouthed kisses against Dean's skin and pretends that this is all there is and neither one of them will ever have to leave this moment.  
  
"Getting a divorce," Dean says suddenly and Sam jumps. Not just because of the words themselves but because the sound of Dean's voice after thick and lengthy silence is startling.  
  
So, intelligently, Sam says, "What?" And, then, because he really _had_ heard Dean, even if it took a minute for his ears to catch up, he says, "Why?"  
  
Dean sighs and shifts his legs under the sheet. Sam knows the right one bothers him a lot, most of the cartilage in his knee gone and the tendons prone to twist and crack like gunshots. "Because she cheats. And then I cheat with you. Because she doesn't love me, if she ever did, and I… It's no good for any of us. I don't want to be this guy. I don't like being this guy."  
  
Sam doesn't know what to say. They don't talk much, usually. Talking—about real things and not just the language of fucking—is something they do other times, in public; a screen to cover all the things they do in rooms like this, the feelings that neither one of them say anything about but that keep pulling them back together again and again. These times, these rooms…it's his whole life and yet disconnected from everything else and the degree to which that's totally fucked is beyond even his ability to quantify.

A thought occurs to him, ugly and clotted, bad enough to turn his stomach sour and make his throat feel tight. Still, he makes himself say it. "We…we can stop. If…if you want. If it will help. I don't… I'm not trying to fuck you up, Dean."

Which…Sam doesn't know if that's entirely true.

 _Let me fuck you up, Dean. Let me fuck you up because_ I'm _fucked up and I need you. I need you to be as messed up as me. I need you to love me in all my fucked up glory because I can't even love myself anymore and if you don't love me, I don't know… I just don't know._

"We can stop," he says again and it only comes out as a whisper.

"No," Dean says. It's soft but with the kind of finality that Sam knows there's no arguing with him. Dean turns on his side so they're practically nose to nose and his hand drifts over Sam's pectoral. Sam's heart thuds dully towards Dean's touch. "No, we can't. We never could."

 _You could_ , Sam thinks, as aspirin-bitter with that realization as when it first came to him. _If she'd been faithful, if she'd been less of a cunt, you'd never have touched me again. You'd have stayed faithful for her and for the kids. Because you promised and Dean Winchester doesn't break his promises. Not unless someone else breaks them first._

Sam knows that lesson all too well.

But behind it, he feels dirty, shameful joy, rising and soaring like a phoenix. Which is slightly hilarious, because even if Dean divorces Lena, nothing between _them_ is any less complicated or any _more_ fixed, but he can't make it clamp down, can't get a handle on this feeling like everything could be new, like he could finally get the chance to fix what he put horribly wrong.

"Dean—"

But then Dean's hand is sliding again, slipping down across Sam's still hard stomach muscles, across the spur of his hip and then between his legs. He cups Sam, thumb and forefinger slipping under Sam's balls to stroke against the taut skin there. "Shut up," Dean says, the thumb of his other hand smoothing over the flat of Sam's cheek. "Just…don't talk anymore, okay?"

"Okay," Sam mumbles indistinctly as Dean's mouth comes down on his.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for strippedpink for the 2006 spn_holidays. Thanks to quietdiscerning, offtheceiling and mona1347 for beta services.


End file.
